She felt a lump forming in her throat. She understood what he’d done, even shortly after touching stones. What he failed to understand is how she might react to it. To him, this marriage was a burden, and he probably felt she shared his opinion.
“It would be foolish,” he continued, “to jeopardize that by telling your father of something that cannot be changed. No one has to know. In another week, Council will be over, and they’ll all be gone. I’ll reveal everything once it’s safe.”
“Safe from what? Why hide it in the first place?”
He stared at the lamp he still held in one hand. “I thought I could cure it. I thought, somehow, I’d be able to find a way. There are those...”
“What, that live with the disease? They all succumb eventually, Nikandr.”
“I know.” He stared at her, his eyes brimming with emotion.
“You must have known all this. Victania...” She stopped, because she realized what Nikandr had been hoping to do. He had hoped to cure himself, true, but he was desperate to save Victania.
It was touching, his connection to his sister, but also selfish. There were two families to consider in his decision.
But that wasn’t what hurt the worst. Atiana had come to Khalakovo, despite the constant words of her sisters, with hope—hope that Nikandr would accept her; hope that they could come to love one another; hope that she would one day bear his children, and that they would grow to be strong. She didn’t want a marriage like Mileva, who shared with her husband a cold tolerance for one another. She didn’t want to live like Ishkyna, who moved among beds as rapidly as she could, as if that could somehow fill the life her cruel husband drained from her. She didn’t even want a marriage like Mother and Father, where one took knee for the other. She wanted respect. She wanted love. She wanted passion.
Perhaps that had been a foolish list of demands with which to land on Khalakovo’s shores. Perhaps she should be happy that she knew him well, and that he would most likely come to tolerate her. But she was who she was, and she could see clearly now that she would take second seat to Nikandr’s other women: his mother, his sister, even the Aramahn whore he was rumored to be in love with.
“Tell me, Nikandr, would you do for me as you do for Victania?”
The answer was plain in his eyes.
“Then perhaps there is no need for marriage. Perhaps our fathers will allow the documents to live without the compact of blood.”
“You know they won’t.”
“Nyet. Perhaps you’re right.” How foolish she’d been, to think that he would welcome her. “Go,” she said. “I’ll not reveal your precious secret.” Her resolve finally broke, and tears gathered at the corners of her eyes.
He stared at her with a confused look on his face.
Rather than let him stare at her, she lay down, facing away from him. “Go!”
After a moment, the shadows being thrown around the room waved wildly, and he left without another word.
Then, alone once more, she allowed herself to cry.
Atiana stood before a tall mirror and took a deep breath while her handmaid pulled mercilessly at her corset strings. Mileva stood next to her in the same state of dress while Ishkyna sat on the bed, cross-legged, wearing only her shift.
Her future sister, Victania, stood nearby, watching with a critical eye. It was early in the morning, and the Grand Duke was not set to arrive until after noon, and still Victania’s powdered wig and white makeup were impeccable. One would think that the wasting would make her appear weak, but in fact it was just the opposite; though she was frail physically, she had the air of a woman who had taken the disease by the throat, refusing to grant it an inch. It was something Atiana might admire if Victania didn’t treat her as if she were a symptom of the wasting.
Victania stepped between Atiana and the mirror, looking more closely at her hair. She reached out, checking the length at her ears, and it was all Atiana could do not to pull away.
Victania’s mouth pursed. “You won’t be infected,” she said as she continued to draw Atiana’s hair along the side of her cheeks.
“I wasn’t thinking that I would.”
Victania’s sharp eyes focused on hers. “Nyet?”
Atiana remained silent, a surge of jealousy rising up within her. She could never hope to compete with Victania for Nikandr’s love.
Victania moved behind her and checked the back. “I’ll send for the barber,” she said, dropping Atiana’s hair as if it had insulted her.
The door to the room opened, and Yvanna Khalakovo, Ranos’s wife, stepped inside, dressed as impeccably as her sister.
“Khazabyirsk has arrived,” she said to Victania, “and they’re flying the wounded flag.”
Victania looked sternly between the girls and Yvanna. “They won’t be ready in time.”
Yvanna nodded. “The Duke will understand, of course.”
“Da, but I doubt that Mother will.” Victania stiffened her jaw and released a pent-up breath. “Be ready, girls, by the time we return.” And with that she and Yvanna were gone.
Ishkyna rolled her eyes. “Be ready, girls.”
“Mind your manners,” Atiana said.
Ishkyna stared at her impassively. “As if the Dame of Khalakovo would deign to listen at doors.”
Mileva smiled. “You would think she’s getting married.”
“She probably wishes she were,” Ishkyna said as she fell back on the bed. “She loves no one more than her precious Nischka.”
“Shkyna!” Atiana said, though the thoughts echoed her own. “In a day she’ll be my sister.”
As her corset strings were cinched even tighter, Atiana tried to smooth the goose bumps on her arms. The wind was howling outside, which only served to remind her of how long she would have to wait as the flotilla of royalty arrived. The royal eyrie had been cleared for the event, but it would still take hours for all seven ships to land and for the royalty to disembark.
The handmaids, finished with the corsets, helped Atiana and Mileva to step into their cream-colored dresses. They were padded and bulky and would no doubt ruin their figures, but Atiana didn’t care as long as they provided even one dram of warmth.
Ishkyna pulled her dress onto the bed and began smoothing away the wrinkles. “What do you think he’ll be like?”
Mileva smiled, glancing at Atiana from the corner of her eye. “He’ll be soft.”
“Soft?” Ishkyna laughed. “Have you so little faith in your sister?”
Atiana felt her face warm.
Ishkyna’s eyes went mischievous. “Nyet. He’ll be hard as oak, ready to welcome our dear sister to his family properly.”
Atiana frowned, little pleased with Ishkyna’s tone, even less pleased by the look in her eyes, the one that said she knew something her sisters didn’t. “You’d do well to worry about your own husband.”
“Oh! You see how she is, Mileva? She’s already gazing at us over the shoulders of Khalakovos.”
“I am not.”
“Well, you soon will be, Tiana. In no time at all Victania will have you wrapped around her wretched little pinky and you’ll be singing for her just like all the Khalakovo women.”
Atiana stood straighter, to the consternation of her handmaid, who had nearly finished lacing the back of her dress. “I am Vostroman, and I will always be so.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you. Once Nikandr has ridden you like the surf, you’ll open up to the ways Khalakovo.”
“Shkyna, that’s the second time you’ve spoken of my husband—”
“Future husband.”
“You never did so with Mileva’s.”
“Viktor is twenty years her senior. He’s hardly worth the effort.”
“Nevertheless, if you speak of Nikandr again, it will be civilly or I’ll toss you over a cliff myself.”
“So territorial... You’d think she would wait to see what lies below before—”
Atiana turned—batting away her handmaid’s at
tempts at keeping her in place—and stormed over to the bed. She pointed her finger at Ishkyna’s face, her blood boiling at the smug look that greeted her. “I gave you warning.”
“And as it’s the day before your wedding, I let it pass unnoticed.”
Atiana didn’t know what happened. She had fought with her sisters before—countless times—but never had she been so angry as to raise her fist with the intention of striking. Yet before she realized it she had slapped Ishkyna across the face.
Ishkyna’s head snapped to the side. She held one hand tightly to her cheek. She took breath for long, tense moments, and then lowered her hand. When she turned back, Atiana could see a red mark already beginning to swell along her cheek. Her face was calm, which made Atiana shiver—a calm Ishkyna was nothing if not trouble.
Mileva took Atiana around the shoulders. “Enough.” She guided Atiana back toward the handmaids. “We haven’t traveled together in some time. It’s merely a symptom of being cooped up with one another again. Do you remember how viciously we used to fight?”
“The only reason we fought,” Atiana said, “was because the two of you are so insufferable.”
Mileva laughed, looking to Ishkyna, who merely glowered.
“Come, Shkyna,” Mileva said. “It was the very reaction you were trying to provoke.”
“A slap across my face as the dukes are set to arrive? Da. Exactly what I was hoping for.”
Mileva turned away, giving Ishkyna time to cool. “Have you looked into his woman, this Rehada?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve had more than a little to attend to.”
Mileva scoffed. “It’s not something you should ignore, Tiana. A week before our wedding, I had Viktor’s women quaking in their boots at the mere mention of my name. I allow him to see one, if only to keep his interests at a distance, but she’s clean. You know nothing about Nikandr’s.”
“Other than she’s a Motherless whore,” Ishkyna said.
The words were meant to rile, but they were exactly what Atiana had been struggling with ever since hearing the rumor. She had been ready—after an appropriate delay—to accept a courtesan of Landed blood. But an Aramahn? Why? What could he see in her?
She’d decided on the voyage to Khalakovo that she would learn more, but there simply hadn’t been time.
“If you wish,” Mileva said, “I’ll look into it myself. There’s little else to occupy my time.”
Atiana shook her head. “I’ll deal with her in time.”
“Well,” Ishkyna said, “there’s a bright side to everything, is there not?
Perhaps our dear Atiana won’t have to worry about Nikandr’s wandering attention for long.”
Atiana jerked her head to look at Ishkyna in the mirror. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Ishkyna held Atiana’s gaze, her jaw set, her eyes smoldering. And then Atiana remembered. Last night. Someone had spoken to Nikandr—pity, she’d said—and then a door had softly closed. It had been Ishkyna.
As sure as winter was cold, Atiana knew she’d returned after leaving. She’d overheard their conversation.
She knew about Nikandr’s affliction.
The door swung open, startling Atiana. Victania flicked her fingers at Atiana as if summoning a servant girl, and then she left. After one last meaningful glance at Ishkyna, Atiana followed.
Yvanna was there as well, and she fell into step with Atiana as Victania led the way down the tall hallways of Palotza Radiskoye. Their collective footsteps echoed like a handful of stones dropped down a deep, dark well. They left the palotza proper and made their way along an impressive marble colonnade. The entablature protected them somewhat from the drizzle but did nothing to shelter them from the harsh winds. On the right, Khalakovo’s massive black spire towered over Radiskoye. It looked ominous, standing there against the roiling gray clouds.
They entered at the base and descended a long, spiraling set of stairs. Atiana’s anger with Ishkyna was slowly being replaced by fear of the meeting that lay before her, and the deeper they went, the more her stomach began to turn. She wasn’t ready for this. She didn’t know how she would measure up to the woman Mother spoke of with such reverence.
The stairs landed within a circular room with two sets of intricately carved doors. Two pairs of streltsi guarded them, berdische axes and curved shashkas at the ready. An old servant woman, standing by the doors straight ahead of them, bowed as Victania and Yvanna turned to Atiana.
“She will be weak,” Victania said, “for she has only just removed herself from the aether.”
Atiana wanted to bite her tongue, but Victania’s mothering tone and the row with Ishkyna had frayed her nerves. “I am well aware of what the aether does to a woman.”
“Oh?” Victania pursed her lips as her gaze traveled Atiana’s length. “Tell me, then, how long does my mother require a warm fire before her joints begin to ache?”
She swallowed the first response that came to her mind. “I do not know, My Lady.”
“What sort of tea does she favor upon awakening?”
Atiana lowered her gaze. “Forgive my outburst, dear Victania. I have only just completed the voyage here, and I fear the length has made me testy.”
Victania’s eyes did not soften. “Difficult voyage or not, see to it that you curb your tongue. The Matra will not stand for it.”
“Of course not.”
Victania turned to Yvanna. “You can prepare her?”
Yvanna nodded.
“Good.” She turned on her heel and headed into the room with the servant woman, leaving Atiana alone with Yvanna in the cold, dark antechamber.
“Forgive her,” Yvanna said as she blew warmth into her cupped hands. “She’s very preoccupied with your wedding. She doesn’t say it, but she wishes the best for you both.”
Atiana smiled, not wanting to offend. “She does hide it well.”
“Make no mistake, if she didn’t care for you, she would tell you so.”
Atiana had her doubts. Victania knew as well as everyone else that this marriage was crucial for both families. Atiana’s father needed ships to bring goods to Yrstanla, and as light as their coffers were, the only sensible way to get them was by marriage. And Khalakovo had been one of the worst struck by the blight. Nearly two-thirds of their cabbage and potato crops, if reports were to be believed, had been devastated in the last several years. Now more than ever it needed its precious wood and spices and gemstones to be sold in the Motherland. They would need much to weather the coming storm.
A shiver traveled down Atiana’s frame as one of the great doors suddenly opened. Victania motioned them into the room known as the drowning chamber. At the far end of the long, low room, Saphia Mishkeva Khalakovo sat in a wooden chair a goodly distance from the fireplace. An amber-colored stone of chalcedony rested in the circlet upon her brow. Victania stood next to her, a comforting hand upon the Matra’s shoulder.
Every one of the nine families had a room like this, and Khalakovo’s looked eerily similar to Vostroma’s: dark-as-night stone, Aramahn tracework running along the support columns, a basin sitting in the center of the room, all of it laid out almost exactly the same as Galostina’s chamber. The only difference seemed to be the iron lantern holders spaced about the room and the marble busts of the Matri from Khalakovo’s past.
Atiana strode forward as confidently as she could manage. When she stood before Saphia’s chair, she kneeled, waiting to be kissed, hearing only the Matra’s labored breathing.
“Stand, child,” Victania said. “She cannot kiss you.”
Atiana complied, realizing just how much Khalakovo’s Matra had sacrificed for her station. Sunset had already fallen on her fiftieth year, but she looked much, much older. The bones of her hands and wrists stuck out as if she’d been starving herself for months. Her eyes were recessed deeply into their sockets, and her cheeks were little more than hollows. Her white hair was damp and stringy from her time in the cold water that allowed her to t
ouch the aether. She was leaning a bit to one side, and Atiana realized that Victania was standing there, not in any statement of solidarity, but to ensure that her mother didn’t tip over.
Despite all this, there was a regal quality in the way she held her head, the way her steely gaze evaluated Atiana. It gave proof to the supreme effort of will that any Matra needed, much less Saphia, the woman who had tamed the aether the longest in memory.
She looked not so different from Victania, both in form and bearing. The difference was that where Victania demanded respect, Saphia knew it would be given to her.
A golden perch stood behind the Matra’s chair, and a tall rook rested upon it. Rumor had it that so strong was Saphia’s connection to the aether that she could assume a rook for some time after leaving it, but the rook seemed inattentive, uninhabited.
“Touch stones.” Victania’s expression and words were filled with impatience.
Atiana hurriedly pulled at the chain around her neck to retrieve her soulstone. She touched this to Saphia’s circlet, and both stones brightened briefly. She couldn’t help but think of when she’d touched stones with Nikandr, but unlike then, Atiana could feel a strong connection with Saphia, stronger than the one with her own mother hundreds of leagues away.
“Your voyage has delivered you healthy and whole.” Saphia’s voice was a horrible croak.
“It has, Matra, thank you.”
Saphia nodded, a satisfied expression on her face. “It will be good to have another woman in Radiskoye. Too often it teems with men.”
“As you say, Your Grace.”
“Do you know why I’ve brought you here?”
“I assumed it was to meet in the flesh.”
“There is that,” Saphia allowed. “Can you think of nothing else?”
“Well, there is the pending marriage...”
Saphia barked out a short laugh, an act that brought on a coughing fit. Victania supported her mother until she had regained herself. “Da, there is that as well.”
“I’m afraid there’s nothing else I can think of, Matra.”
The Winds of Khalakovo Page 12